


Just Stop Thinking

by SolarPoweredFlashlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight
Summary: Yara Greyjoy catches Daenerys Targaryan's eye; their Dragonstone dalliance may seem, at first glance, to be pure hedonism and little else. But there are lessons to be learned about oneself in many things.





	Just Stop Thinking

_It was different, Daenerys thought, being with a woman. Of course, in all the obvious ways, but she didn’t mean physically. Something about the weight of it, something about the unspoken words that whispered between the lips of man and woman that weren’t there with Yara._

_And oh, she thought ruefully, of course it was Yara who finally caught her eye with enough vigor to draw her in well beyond the curious dallying of her youth. She’d always had a type, after all, and the lopsided smirk and rough hands and wiry muscle were just as enjoyable on a woman as they were on a man._

_But it was different. Perhaps it was the freedom, total freedom, from any question of children. A lack of conception after an evening’s affair with a woman wasn’t an anomaly, a painful reminder of the deadly, life-changing mistake made years ago. It wasn’t even something worth thinking about._

_With the hard-cut sailor pressing her against the wall, whispering a blissful, rugged purr of promised debauchery that was somewhere between Drogo’s wordless hunger and Daario’s eloquent desire, above all else Daenerys found herself enjoying the physicality of the encounter in a deeply freeing way._

_Men seemed to pride themselves on their ability not only to fuck, but also to impregnate, their fertility and virility interwoven inescapably. Yara had no such concerns. Yara’s gasping breath and grasping hands yearned only for the present, not for the future – for what she held, and not for what it might result in._

 

“I see you,” Yara whispers, lips against her ear, hands briefly stilled. “I see you thinking, Dragon Queen.”

Daenerys licks her lips, casts her eyes aside, and back. A moment of uncertainty, vulnerability, and she’s embarrassed to be caught in it, embarrassed by the way Yara looks at her.

No. This is not how she does this. Not anymore.

 _Daenerys Stomborn, Breaker of Chains,_ she recites in her head, surging forward and grabbing fistfuls of Yara’s shirt, _Mother of Dragons, The First of Her Name._ She wipes away the past with a fury of hunger. This moment of hedonism is not an escape – it is her right.

Yara exhales as she’s pushed against the wall, Daenerys is delighted to find, and there is just the slightest tremble audible. _Good_ , she thinks, rallying her confidence, revelling in the rush of power. Like conquest. Like the feeling of whispering _dracarys_ , she thinks, as she kisses Yara again and again. Mastery.

She feels Yara smirk against her, grows taut with the heated surprise of a calloused hand exploring the inside of her thigh. _Impatient,_ she thinks, _always so fucking impatient, my lovers_ , but then to her surprise Yara slides the hand to her lower back.

A thigh between the legs – a strong thigh, thick and muscular and bound in sturdy salt-kissed leather – and then Yara flips her. Back against the wall, that pillar of muscle between her thighs, Daenerys feels like she’s suddenly falling and isn’t entirely sure she dislikes it. Yara grinds up against her, teeth on her neck, her jagged breath a quiet piece of flattery with every catch.

Daenerys grasps at her, at whatever purchase her fingers can find – left on waist, right on the back of the neck, finding hair to lose itself in. The friction alone is incredible, the closeness, and Daenerys holds on to this smirking rock through the storm of her brewing passion.

It shouldn’t be so good, a fully clothed leg rubbed against her, but here she is, and here Yara is, and oh, the fire is building, building, riding these touches.

“That’s better,” Yara purrs, and the approval sings loudly in Daenarys’ blood. She likes it, and it scares her that she likes it, and so she snatches back at the fraying edges of her control.

“On the bed,” she commands, channeling every ounce of royalty in her body into those three words. Yara’s eyes give away her own conflicted pleasure, pride and surrender, arousal and posturing. Daenerys punctuates her order by taking advantage of her hand in Yara’s hair to draw her grip tight, ferocious, demanding. “ _Now,”_ she growls.

Yara’s face fluctuates from something momentarily vulnerable to something quietly settled, impressed and willing. It’s a dramatic improvement over the way she was looking at Daenerys earlier. She backs up towards the bed, never breaking eye contact, and Daenerys pursues her there, soft and fluid, imagining herself a prowling beast with no need to rush.

Rush. Yes, it absolutely is a rush, when Yara looks at her with those flinty Greyjoy eyes and that proud tilt to her chin and still, miraculously, chooses to obey.

Drogo never looked at her like that, but Daario certainly did.

Daenerys thinks she can safely say she’s developed a taste for it.

Yara’s legs hit the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think I gave you permission to be wearing clothes,” Daenerys says, quirking an eyebrow, testing the potency of her power over Yara. She finds herself hoping –

“Need permission, do I?” Yara shoots back, suddenly smirking again. She seems to stand a little taller, her stare seems to burn a little more intensely, and Daenerys realizes with a thrill that she _wanted_ Yara to talk back, and the wily woman delivered.

“I am your Queen, am I not?” Daenerys says, feeling a smirk of her own blossoming on her face. She takes a threatening step towards Yara. When Yara answers by stepping aggressively in herself, bringing them back into touching distance, an approving coil of arousal makes itself known somewhere between Daenerys’ legs.

“Out there, you are,” Yara says, unflinching, a different beast entirely from the obedient supplicant of only a few heartbeats ago. “In here, we’re equals.” She’s still smirking. How can such an innocuous, sensible statement sound like the promise of the unbridled fucking of a lifetime when said in just the right tone of voice? Something of her wonder must show in her face, because Yara’s smirk grows broader. “Never fucked a woman before, have you?”

Dammit, damn it all, and now there’s heat flooding her face.

“No,” Daenerys concedes, trying to seem confident in spite of this admission.

“ _Well_ ,” Yara chortles, taking another step forward, bumping their hips together, sliding her hands seamlessly along the smooth fabric of Daenerys’ dress to settle against her lower back, “let’s make it memorable, then, shall we?”

Daenerys has some witty comeback, some clever and daring words, but she never gets to say them. In a flurry of sudden and unexpected movement, she picks Daenerys up and steps backwards into the bed. If Daenerys is self-conscious about the girlishness of the surprised and delighted squeak that erupts from her, there isn’t enough of a moment to linger in that before Yara’s got her hands back on her thighs, pushing the edge of her dress up along her legs.

Yara is settled back in the bed, the smirk still fixed on her face but her eyes rapt with hunger, and Daenerys is all too happy to be looking down at her, straddling her hips. She cocks an eyebrow and gives Yara a knowing smile, arching her back and lifting her arms. They lock eyes again, and the thrum of charged energy between them leaps alive along every tiny hair on her back and arms. No instruction needed, Yara works the dress up over Daenerys’ head and arms and then tosses it to the side. Daenerys ponders making some sort of chiding remark about the value of the fabric now crumpled on her floor, but the hands on her naked waist and the hot mouth closing around her nipple promptly erases all thought.

Her breath catching in her throat, Daenerys sighs her approval, urges Yara on with a demanding hand on the back of her head. She risks a glance down; no smirk now, Yara’s face is a portrait of concentration as she alternates teeth and tongue, digging her fingers hard into Daenery’s hips. A flick of the tonguetip sends a spike of urgent pleasure through her body, and without conscious thought she rocks her body against Yara’s, taut and gorgeous beneath her.

 _I want her naked_ , is one of the few fluttering mostly-thoughts that ghosts through Daenerys’ mind in between the roiling, thrusting –

\- _fuck_

As Yara swiftly moves her attention to the other breast, a fresh strike of pleasure, another layer to all the things her body is responding to, and dammit, why is Yara still wearing _clothes –_

With flustered fingers, Daenerys reaches for the drawstring of Yara’s shirt. From the moment this damned Kraken came strutting into the throne room Daenerys has thought about this, thought about collar bones and whipcord strength and battle scars and –

Effortlessly, Yara rolls them both over and pins Daenerys against the bed.

“Ask nicely, love,” Yara growls, eyes alight with mischief and desire in equal measures. Daenerys laughs at her, even though she’s been shifted to the bottom, and grabs her by the hem of her shirt.

“As if you aren’t just as eager as I am to be rid of this shirt,” she counters, dragging Yara’s face closer so she can kiss her hard and hungry. She bites Yara’s lower lip; Yara exhales suddenly, pushes her back down into the pillows, bites her back. For a moment, the question of clothing is forgotten in the pleasure of wild kisses and gyrating hips.

With a thief’s grace, Yara snakes her hands down Daenerys’ arms and takes her wrists, so gently, and then with a shuddering, victorious grin, brings them up over her head and holds them there.

“I don’t expect to hold down a Dragon Queen for long,” Yara says, her entire body pressed to Daenerys’, her teeth grazing the shell of her ear, “but if you’re good, and keep your hands where I put them, I’ll reward you with what you want.”

Daenerys swallows, tries to formulate a response, but doesn’t have words for the way that invitation to obey makes her insides twist and flutter.

“What do you say?” Yara whispers, her grip growing loose.

 _Fight back_ , snarls the part of Daenerys that thrills in the hunt, in the conquest. _Now is the perfect opportunity._

“Please,” she breathes, barely audible.

Perhaps Yara knows not to push her luck – perhaps she understands that demanding a more thorough surrender from Daenerys would only provoke the other side of the coin of her desires. Perhaps she simply does just want to be out of her clothes as badly as Daenerys wants her to be.

Insight or impatience, Yara takes her at her word that she’ll obey, and – somewhat to her own surprise – Daenerys does. She lies back, wrists crossed above her head, bound only by her own acquiescence.

And _oh_ , the reward.

Tomorrow, when she can think straight again, Daenerys is going to have to re-evaluate what it is she thinks she likes in the bedroom. Tonight, one thing is certain: she likes getting what she wants, and regardless of the method used, she has no regrets about the path taken to lying back in a plush bed of feather pillows with a toned raider woman straddling her lap and disrobing while she watches.

Yara goes torturously slow, toying with the taut line of Daenerys’ obedience. She loosens the laces of her shirt front line by line, expression deadly serious, thrilling in its intensity. Lace by lace the shirt parts, exposing more of her neck, her collar bone, the shadowed hint of the beginnings of the musculature where her shoulders connect to her neck. She lifts the shirt up over her head, taking an undershirt up and over with it in the same motion.

She rises up onto her knees to undo her breeches, and Daenerys feels the absence of her body heat keenly.

Daenerys’ eyes rove her new lover’s torso as she works open the breeches, admiring the depths and rises of hard-earned bicep definition accentuated in black and gold by the candlelight. Her attention catches on the sinew of Yara's knuckly hands as she tugs loose the tie, sweeping back up her forearm to follow the subtle workings of the muscles there required for the simple act of dexterity.

It’s almost a surprise to see breasts there, on that hard warrior’s body – almost. But Yara is somehow cohesive in spite of what other minds might perceive as a disconnect; every part of her fits together in the way that every plank on a ship fits snugly together, right angles and straight lines somehow convinced by artful but mercenary engineering to come together in an elegant, powerful whole just as capable of curves as it is of edges.

Yara meets her eyes.

“You know,” she muses, tugging down her breeches, “I’ve fucked lots of women, and none of them have ever looked at me quite that way.”

“Oh?” Daenerys says, sensing that ravenous predator within stirring again, tempted to seize back control of the situation. “And how exactly is it that I’m looking at you?”

“Like you either want to fuck me until I can’t walk or you want to stuff me and hang me on your wall like a prize stag, and you’re still deciding between the two.” Yara lifts an eyebrow at her cheerfully, challenging her to disagree.

Daenerys purses her lips, failing to suppress a laughing smile, and rakes her gaze along the rest of her, now revealed. Briefly she lingers on the inviting line of thick, dark hair that courses from Yara’s navel and draws the eyes down between her legs.

Promptly, she looks back up at Yara’s face. She looks like she’s thoroughly enjoying being ogled.

“Surprised?” Yara teases, “Never looked down at yourself before?”

Almost lazily, Daenerys abandons the pretense of keeping her wrists in place and pushes herself up into a sitting position, bringing them face to face once more.

“Are you going to talk,” she says dryly, her voice suddenly brimming with command, “or are you going to fuck me?”

In a flash Yara’s mouth is on hers, her back is pressed to the sheets again, and Yara’s thigh is firm against her. This time the grip on her wrists is iron instead of silk, and when Daenerys strains against Yara’s hands to try to lean in to the kiss, she finds those rough fingers blissfully unyielding.

Grunting, Yara deftly switches her hold so that she’s keeping Daenerys pinned with one strong hand and has the other free to stroke covetous touches up and down her rib cage. Again, Daenerys tugs experimentally, playfully, at the lone hand that has her wrists – and is somewhat surprised and impressed to find her two are easily bested by Yara’s one.

Yara pauses in kissing and pulls back, making serious eye contact. Realizing Yara’s checking in to make sure her struggles aren’t in earnest, Daenerys smirks to reassure her and then presses her leg hard between Yara’s thighs, following her lead and driving a few friction-filled gyrations of her hips.

“Fucking – “ Yara exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment and face contorting with pleasure. Daenerys likes the way it looks on her, likes the way it makes her feel to know she can do that to her. She rocks her leg back and forth hard against her, and it’s surprisingly easy, considering how much men like to joke pleasing a woman in bed is so complicated as to be not worth attempting. Encouraged by the lubrication she can feel warm and slick on her thigh, she goes a little harder, a little faster.

Yara makes a noise, a strangled little whimper that transitions into a satisfied growl.

Her free hand resumes its exploration of the Dragon Queen’s body, questing with shameless sensuality from breast to breast, along her ribcage, and then her hip bone, and –

Daenerys throws her head back and shuts her eyes, shuddering as Yara’s finger glides between her folds, down and then up again, pressing in gently as she brings her hand back up until unerringly Yara finds her clit. She can’t help the gasp that slips past her lips; it’s been months and Daenerys has rather missed this.  Jolts of building ecstasy rush through her to the beat of Yara’s steady, rhythmic circles, and thoughts of staying in control slip out of her mind like sand through fingers. It feels so good, she’d almost forgotten. You can’t really remember what it’s like until you’re in it again, hopelessly adrift in the seas of your body and its roaring tides of pleasure. So good, so good, and then occasionally Yara hits the perfect spot and she writhes, coarse curses spilling from her lips in vulgar Dothraki. She rides the crest of each wave as they get higher and higher, and –

Yara pulls her hand away, suddenly stopping, and Daenerys blinks her eyes open. She tries to catch her breath, tries to remember how to form sentences. She was getting close, why did she stop?

“Slide down to the edge of the bed,” Yara says, voice thick and heady, and then without so much as an if-you-please she hunches over and then hefts Daenerys’ legs up onto her shoulders and pulls her bodily down the mattress towards the end so that her shins hang off. The forcefulness and unnecessary show of strength somehow serves to turn Daenerys on even more, and it must show somehow because Yara flashes her another smirk.

Then her face disappears between Daenerys’ thighs. She bites and kisses her way from one knee to the other, torturously avoiding putting her mouth where Daenerys most insistently wants it to be.

And then there it is, at last, that devious smirk and surprisingly silver tongue exactly where Daenerys has fantasized about putting it since her first audience with the Greyjoy captain. Warm and confident, her mouth resumes the work of her fingers, drawing broad circles and quickly bringing her back to the point of gasping, shuddering, sweating shakes she’d been drowning in right before they changed position.

But that isn’t all Yara has in store for her. She demanded a fucking and it seems she’s to get one, from the questing feel of the fingertips against her entrance. Yara times her delving in pulses of the wrist in perfect sync with the press of her tongue, each burst of sensation matched with a slightly deeper penetration. If Daenerys had worried that sex with a woman might be lacking in this department, Yara seems to be very effectively allieviating that concern. With a final deep thrust of her fingers, the firm circling press of her tongue unrelenting, Yara seems to have the full length of her digits in. It feels pretty good, pretty damn good indeed, but then she does something with those fingers, something inside of her, and Daenerys is suddenly catapulted to a new layer of sensation and pleasure entirely.

She swears again, this time in Valyrian, and arches her sweat-speckled back. Helpless. She feels helpless.

Fear – a moment of fear. She doesn’t like helpless. She won’t be helpless. Not again, never again –

She opens her eyes and looks down at Yara, grounds herself. She’s not helpless. She’s still in charge here, still in control, still can stop this any time she wants.

Yara’s face is only visible from nose up, and her hair is plastered to her forehead, sticky with perspiration. From this angle, Daenerys can see the rolling of her back muscles as she thrusts with her whole body, using the momentum not only to drive her fingers but also to provide a steady pulsing of her tongue. A bead of sweat, caught in the divots of her spine, catches the candlelight.

Daario is not the only attentive lover Daenerys has ever had. Perhaps Yara senses a change in her body language, hears a change in her breathing, but she stops, pulls away, looks up. Again, Yara offers Daenerys eye contact and a cocked eyebrow, putting a brief hold on all activities until she’s sure they’re wanted.

“Please don’t stop,” Daenerys says, the brief threat of demons past thoroughly vanquished by Yara – tough, smirking, bragging, swaggering raider Yara Greyjoy – and her clear willingness to back off at the first sign of discomfort. She is far from helpless, and she is safe chasing passion here with this woman.

Yara crawls up onto the bed with her, grabs her impetuously by the chin.

“You be honest with me if you don’t like something, Dragon Queen,” Yara says, brows furrowed with a rough earnestness.

“I will. I’m fine.”

“Thinking again, I bet. C’mere.” Yara leans in and kisses her, and this, _this_ is a new experience, being kissed while her lover’s face is still sticky with her own arousal, filling the air with the smell of herself. It’s – somehow – shockingly exciting, and Daenerys kisses back with sincere urgency. She was _so close_ \- this starting and stopping is going to drive her to madness. “I have an idea of how to stop you from thinking, my Queen,” Yara says, and the way she says it sends hungry prickles up Daenerys’ back.

Yara flops over on the bed on her back and gestures for Daenerys to take the top position. Daenerys is briefly dismayed – turnabout is fair play of course, but she still hasn’t even come yet. But then Yara gently reaches down for Daenerys’ hips and guides her up.

“You’ve ridden cock before, I assume,” Yara says, reaching up to casually toy with one of Daenerys’ nipples while she talks, grinning absently at the outsized reaction it gets from Daenerys in her current state of desperate, twice-denied need. “Think of this like that, except instead of cock, it’s my face. Instead of just lying there while I do all the damn work, you’re actually involved.” She cranes her neck forward and nips playfully at the skin of Daenerys’ thigh, earning another shudder. “All I ask is you warn me if you’re about to drench me. Had that happen once, thought I was going to meet the Drowned God with a hell of a story to tell.”

Daenerys bursts out laughing, sitting on this absurd warrior woman’s chest with one of Yara’s hands resting comfortably on her thigh while she tells this ridiculous anecdote. Another thought occurs to her and she starts giggling harder.

“Oh, _no_ ,” she wheezes through her laughter, “I honestly just thought to myself – “ she pauses to slump over, giggling still to herself while Yara grins bemusedly up at her, “I just thought, I swear: Finally a reason to be glad I let Tyrion insist on teaching me every single obscure religion in Westeros before we sailed here.”

Yara starts laughing now too, and the great heaving laughs shake Daenerys’ seat on her chest, and then they’re both just laughing helplessly at the bizarreness of the notion, which is probably not as funny as it seems in the moment. They laugh for a good minute, thinking they’ve pulled themselves together and then collapsing in snorts again, off and on, before finally they heave satisfied sighs. A momentary stillness passes over them before either of them speak.

“This is not,” Daenerys confesses, “how I thought this would go.”

“Well,” Yara says, looking up at her with a crooked little smile, “there’s your problem. All that damn thinking.” A pause, a glance down at the temptation waiting just in front of her face – still hungry, in spite of the delays, the awkwardness, the interruption for a laugh. “Mind if I…?”

Daenerys smiles down at her. Finally asking for permission, it would seem.

“Be a good girl, then,” she says, testing the feel of these words in her mouth and enjoying the way she can see, from this close range, the way they make Yara’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, “and finish what you started.”

Yara swallows, huffs loudly through her nose, but doesn’t argue this. She wraps her rigging-roughed hands around Daenerys’ thighs and pulls her closer, kissing her way up her legs and then tugs her firmly into position.

Daenerys is already so wet and so close at this point that it doesn’t take much, and Yara, to her credit, has multiple tricks up her sleeves. From this position, instead of flat strokes with her tongue that use her body’s momentum, it feels like to Daenerys she’s hardened her tongue to more of a firm point, delivering intense, less generalized sensation.

It almost, Daenerys vaguely marvels as she begins to lose herself in the rhythm of thrusting herself steadily against Yara’s mouth, it almost feels like a finger.

As promised, however, her active involvement means between the waves of pleasure and trying to maintain a steady pace of rocking her hips against Yara’s face, one hand on the wall and one gripping Yara’s hair, she has no room for any other thoughts. Close, close, closer – fuck but her tongue is amazing, each movement such a sharp and powerful flick with how intense her need has become by this point. It’s almost like a concussive blow of ecstasy with each movement. Up, up, up, and –

It happens fast, it happens hard. Daenerys comes with a guttural cry that is likely heard across all of Dragonstone.

Sticky, sweaty, and exhausted, Daenerys rolls off of Yara and stares at the ceiling, just floating in the aftermath. Yara gives her face a cursory wipe with her barely-any-cleaner hand and then turns her head to smirk idly at Daenerys.

“That meet your satisfaction, my Queen?” She taunts, clearly pleased with herself.

“Mmm,” Daenerys murmurs, still dazed. “I think I need a nap,” she says, then turns sleepy eyes on Yara, “and then after that, you’re going to teach me how to do that.”

Yara’s face lights up.

“It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
